


Just Right

by Ralkana



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Clint Barton needs a nap, Fairy Tale Retellings, Getting Together, M/M, Trope Bingo Round 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-03
Updated: 2013-09-03
Packaged: 2017-12-25 12:13:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/952955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ralkana/pseuds/Ralkana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once upon a time, there was a sleepy little Hawk, searching high and low for a place to lay his head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Right

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer ~ Marvel's toys, not mine. I'm just playing with them.
> 
> Thanks to all of Feelschat in general, and AlyKat, Maquis Leader, and totalnerdatheart in particular, for all their help, support, and cheerleading, especially when I was once again shaking my fist at titles and summaries.
> 
> This story fills the fairy tale/myth square on my Trope Bingo Round 2 card.

 

Clint ambled out of Medical, absently scratching at the bandage that covered the now neatly stitched gash just above his right elbow. The local was starting to wear off, and it stung and itched like crazy.

He yawned wide enough to make his jaw crack, stretching tall in a vain attempt to get the knots in his back to release. Three days in a rooftop nest followed by two hours of crash time on a cot shoved in a corner of a busy, bustling safe house, an eight hour flight in a jump seat next to a chatty seatmate, and a two hour debrief in a chair he swore Fury had commissioned specifically to contort spines, and his body was waving a white flag and calling uncle.

Eyes at half mast, he trudged through the carrier's corridors toward the section that held the quarters designated for the senior agents and specialists.

He slipped into his quarters and tossed his gear bag in the corner as he toed off his boots. Yawning again, he shuffled to his bunk and faceplanted into it without even bothering to turn on the light.

Relaxing into the mattress with a satisfied sigh, he waited for sleep to claim him.

And waited.

And waited some more.

He squirmed onto his side with a grunt, curling around his pillow. Eyes closed, he lay there and listened to the even sound of his own breathing.

He had no idea how much time passed before he flopped onto his back and flung an arm over his eyes.

"Fuck," he muttered, sitting up.

His quarters were located toward the interior of the carrier, and he kept them dark as pitch. The soundproofing kept things completely muffled, leaving nothing but ringing silence.

Normally that was fine -- the way he liked it -- but every once in a while, it felt like a cage, a cell, like the walls were closing in on him, and he had to get out. Not even his iPod helped at those times. He needed light, and sound, and the feeling of others moving nearby.

Shoving his feet into his battered Chucks, he grabbed his wallet and his keys before slipping back out of his quarters.

He wandered zombielike for a couple of decks, brain too exhausted to come up with a plan other than "get out of here now". Eventually, he came across an empty break room. The break room couches weren't the most comfortable, but hey, he'd slept in far worse places.

With the light off and the door open, there was enough ambient light and sound that he didn't feel closed in. The corridor wasn't busy, but enough people passed by that he didn't feel like the last person alive on the carrier.

Dropping bonelessly onto the couch, he wrapped his arms around himself and instantly fell into a light doze.

It was fitful and broken -- every time someone walked by, he jolted awake, eyes snapping open -- but it was better than the dark tomb of his quarters.

At least, it was until Delancey and Woo came barging in and flipped on the lights, arguing about some stupid college football game.

Clint sat up with a groan. Later, he'd tease the hell out of Delancey for the yip of fright that burst from him, but for now, Clint just scrubbed his hands over his face, muttering a curse.

"Jesus, Barton!" Woo said, eyes wide. "Sorry, man, didn't see you there."

They were both staring at him like he'd grown fins, probably wondering what the hell he was doing sleeping on the break room couch when he had perfectly good quarters two decks down.

"'s okay," he mumbled as he stood. "I'll just..."

He trailed off, pointing toward the door, and there was a beat of silence before he turned and shuffled out.

Clint had the best vision SHIELD had ever recorded, but his hearing was shit, so it was easy to ignore whatever they were whispering about him as he left.

He had one last option, he thought as he walked the corridors. He hated to do it, hated to be a distraction or a burden or a bother, but he was just so tired. Maybe just an hour or two. Then he'd try to bunk down in his quarters again for the rest of his down time.

"Coulson?" he called as he knocked on the man's office door. There was no answer, and he glanced down. No light spilled under the door, and he sighed and thumped his head against the door of the empty office.

Coulson was on an op, he remembered now, for another three days at least, barring complications.

Clint thought longingly of the incredibly comfortable couch behind the locked door. Just an hour or two of good sleep. That was all he needed.

Later, he'd blame his decision on exhaustion. He wasn't thinking straight. It was the only explanation for why he picked the lock on Coulson's office door and let himself in to nap on the man's couch.

He shut and locked the door behind him. It was dim -- Coulson's high status within SHIELD earned him a window, but with the blinds shut tight, the natural light that filtered in was soothing instead of glaring. Clint gratefully breathed in the familiar smells of coffee, gun oil, and the lingering aroma of hundreds of working lunches that the carrier's filtering system could never quite get rid of.

In the corner by Coulson's desk, there was a little machine that played white noise. Clint crossed to it and flicked it on. The office was instantly filled with the low, gentle sound of a summer storm, and Clint smiled.

It wasn't as good as the tiny desktop waterfall that sat on Coulson's credenza landside, but it would do.

He moved to the couch, toeing off his shoes and dropping his keys and wallet on the bookshelf. He didn't even bother with the lumpy afghan he knew Coulson kept tucked in the lowest file cabinet drawer, the first knitting project his eldest niece had ever finished.

Settling onto the couch, Clint buried his face in the cushions and breathed in. Coulson napped here sometimes, he knew, when he was too busy to even go down a few decks to his quarters. The couch carried faint traces of him: more coffee, his apple scented shampoo, the spicy notes of his aftershave. Clint smiled and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

A sound filtered into his consciousness, and he twitched, but didn't wake. Slowly, it registered as the scrape of a key in the lock, the turn of the handle, and Clint sat up, body awake, brain creakily catching up.

Eyes wide, he watched the handle turn, heart pounding like a rabbit's in a trap.

"Shit," he muttered. "Shit shit shit no no no, he's not supposed to be back for another three days!"

His gaze flew wildly around the office, but there was no escape. He was well and truly caught.

Coulson came in and shut the door behind him, freezing with his hand halfway to the light switch.

He turned, one eyebrow coming up as he stared at Clint.

"Well, well, well," he said with a tired grin. "Looks like somebody's been sleeping in my bed."

Clint swallowed, throat dry, head still fuzzy and half asleep.

"I'm sorry," he rasped. "I didn't -- I just -- I'll -- "

He broke off as Coulson turned to flip on the light and lock the door.

Shit. What did that mean? Coulson wasn't going to kick his ass for breaking in, was he? He wouldn't do that. Would he?

Setting his briefcase on his desk, Coulson grabbed the visitor's chair and hauled it a couple of feet to rest in front of the couch. He sat down and regarded Clint gravely.

"Sir, I -- "

"Talk to me, Barton," he interrupted. "Mission?"

"Objective achieved," he responded automatically.

"Injuries?" His eyes fell on the bandage on Clint's arm, and he frowned.

"Minor. Eight stitches."

"That's it?"

Clint nodded, and then yawned, unable to stop himself. He didn't know how long he'd been asleep, but it couldn't have been very long. He was still foggy, and having difficulty focusing.

Even so, he knew he'd fucked up. It was one thing to lounge around in Coulson's office when he was there, half-assing his mission reports and napping while Coulson worked on paperwork.

This was different, this was -- he'd _broken into the man's office._

They'd been dancing around this thing between them for months, maybe years, but the unspoken rule was that it stayed just that. Unspoken. Unacknowledged.

But how the hell was he supposed to explain this? And telling Coulson that he felt safer, more secure, more comfortable here than anywhere else, even his own quarters, even if Coulson _wasn't even here_ , was only going to make things worse.

Now he was going to have to sit and listen as Coulson told him how inappropriate this was, how far over the line he'd stepped, and then he'd have to watch as Coulson sent him away, assigned him another handler, washed his hands of him.

"I'm sorry, sir," he said, and he was horrified to hear how his voice shook. "I just... I'm sorry, I just wanted to sleep."

Coulson watched him for a moment, his eyes soft but unreadable, and then he nodded.

He stood, and his hand came up. Clint forced himself not to flinch. Coulson wouldn't hit him. He _wouldn't_.

He didn't. He smoothed down some of the hair that had gone all weird as Clint slept, his hand lingering, almost petting, and Clint held himself very still to keep from arching into the touch. What...

Coulson went to his desk, and Clint swallowed and bit back a protest, wondering if he was going to start the asset transferral process immediately, but all the other man did was open a desk drawer and rattle around a little. Then, he came back and sat down in front of Clint, reaching over to grab Clint's keys off the bookshelf.

"Coulson?"

Coulson held up a silver key.

"Office," he said as he added it to Clint's keyring. The second key he held up was gold, and he added that one too.

"Quarters. I don't have a spare apartment key on me, but I'll get one cut for you next time I'm landside."

Clint stared, unable to process Coulson's actions. "Sir?"

Coulson laughed. "I just gave you the key to my quarters, Clint. I think you can call me Phil."

"I don't... I don't understand."

"You don't have to break in, Clint. You never have to break in. I want you here. Walking in to see you all bedheaded and fuzzy brained has been the absolute best part of a very long week. A very long month. I want it to happen again. Want to come home and find you napping on my couch, maybe curled in my bed."

Clint was pretty sure he was still asleep on Coulson's couch, 'cause this kind of thing had happened before. He just stared and waited for the dream to dissolve.

Coulson chuckled.

"You _are_ tired," he said, his voice full of humor. He tossed Clint's keys back on the bookshelf and stood, stripping off his suit jacket as he walked to the door and flipped the light back off. He came back and draped his jacket over the back of the chair he'd been sitting in, unknotting and removing his tie to lay it over the jacket. He toed his shoes off and nudged them under it and then sat next to Clint on the couch. With a hand on Clint's shoulder, he tugged him down until they were lying on the couch, Coulson on his back with Clint sprawled stiffly atop him.

"What..." Clint said again. It was slowly dawning on him that this wasn't a dream.

"Shh," Coulson -- Phil? -- soothed, grunting as he arranged them. The couch was really too small for two grown men, and they were kind of squashed together, their legs a tangled mess. "We'll talk later. For now, just sleep. I've got you."

"Are you sure? That you want..." Clint murmured, still kind of in shock -- feeling a laugh rumble through Phil's chest was pretty amazing.

"I want," he said. Clint felt the brush of Phil's lips in his hair, and his eyes fluttered closed. "Sleep now."

Clint wanted to tell him that he couldn't sleep like this, he couldn't sleep this close to someone else, all tangled up. He needed his space, he got too hot, too antsy, and he'd only lie awake and fidget.

But Phil's hand lightly stroked his back, his warm breath ruffling Clint's hair, his heartbeat steady under Clint's ear. The gentle thrum of it was better than a lullaby, and Clint's breathing unconsciously evened out to match Phil's. His body felt lax, heavy, and he nuzzled closer, Phil's shirt soft under his cheek as he breathed in the subtle remains of Phil's cologne.

_Just right_ he thought hazily, and then sleep dragged him under once more.

**END**

**Author's Note:**

> One year ago today, I took a deep breath and hit post on my very first C/C fic, just hoping that maybe a few people would find it interesting. Never could I have imagined the amazing level of response, feedback, and friendship I've discovered since tiptoeing into this fandom. Thank you all so very, very much. You're all incredible.
> 
> My tumblr is [here](http://ralkana.tumblr.com), by the way, if you want to come say hi.


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